Tomaz Salamun: Letters

I

Love, spinning
like geometry, where are you?
Should I really believe in
myself, as—you say—you do,
you, the tree with tenants,
soil with hoops, earth with
rain? I am not that perfect,
also animals, copulating, are not.
The dragon with the dragon, the sheep with the sheep,
the light with shadow. And after all, what did my
esoteric method, my lust for translation
take away from you? Didn’t I bring
everything back? You refused me,
because you are a shallow and impatient
reader, because I said I was God and you
believed me. You thought it was cruelty
when it was fire, water, air. Is it better for you
now, up against other shoulders?
Other, much more exhausted
forms than I was?

II

Fuck you! Don’t you get it,
you were already gone? And with that
you crumbled like some loathsome
plastic toy. How
terribly boring, this eternal
theme of yours! This vain little system
of painting and usurping living
people! Any woman would go crazy.
You drank my air like the greediest little
toad. Find yourself some Veronica or
Magdalena, if now, too late,
you realize that your conspiracies with
the apostles are unnatural. Nature, you see!
Of course I believed you, and who wouldn’t,
before they saw. But slowly you will
realize, or maybe already, that what you were
playing at was also kitsch for history, not just for
a woman. Yes it’s better for me now that I am
leaning against other shoulders.
I’m fine. And that thing about ››exhaustion‹‹,
I feel sorry for you! Enough with that ridiculous pale
face of yours, with that ››suffering‹‹, for which
you are not the least bit talented. These black holes
that you draw for yourself are hardly
love or responsibility towards children, but the same
sort of painted background as ››your
Maruška‹‹ that never was. And print
this, as your have everything else:
You are out of the game.

III

I am sitting on a chair.
Like some dead priest whose blood
they’ve sucked.
They blossom, they blossom,
the almond trees.
We are all going home.
The cloud is air.
From up close you can see
That you can’t caress it.
Steamboats wait to be
unloaded in the harbour.
Yesterday it rained.
Today the sun glitters.
They blossom, they blossom,
the almond trees.



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